Mary Cassatt inducted into the Hall of Marys!

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It has been too long since my last post, and way too long since I inaugurated the Hall of Marys. Today is Mary Cassatt’s birthday and I can’t think of a better reason to break my online silence!

Mary Cassatt self portrait

Here are the reasons that Mary Cassatt was nominated (by me) and elected (by me) to join my sainted grandmother in the Hall of Marys:

1) She pursued her career in art despite objections from her family and the sexist attitudes of her male peers.

2) She once said, ” I am independent! I can live alone and and love to work.”

3) She was one of 3 women and the only American to exhibit with the Impressionist group in late 19th century Paris, which members included the likes of Degas, Monet, Renoir, and Pissarro.

4) She was a badass feminist who didn’t conform to the expectations the male dominated art world at the time–didn’t flirt her way into art shows, didn’t get married, and supported her art through her own work.

5) and too many other reasons, which you may feel free to add!

Reminders

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Once a week, I volunteer at a center that serves women and men who are homeless or extremely poor. I’ve been involved in one way or another with the place for more than a decade, but I still get surprises every time I go…or maybe not so much surprises as reminders.

The first reminder is that there is no typical homeless person. I saw a man who looked like the stereotype–long hair held back with bandana, unshaved face, raggedy jeans–and another who looked for all the world like a physician, with bifocal glasses, a tweed jacket, and a gentle demeanor.

The second reminder was how generous people who are poor can be. They will pray for you, ask how you are doing, and help their friends in just about any way imaginable. They will tithe out of the paltry sums they get from minimum wage jobs or Social Security checks. Today, as I collected meal tickets, one of the regulars–a woman who carries her tiny dog around in her jacket–gave me a beaded bracelet. I knew better than to turn it down–accepting the generosity of others is a lesson learned early in this business.

a gift to pay forward

The bracelet sat on the desk next to me as I did my work. Just about everyone commented on and admired it. Before I left, I passed it along to another woman at the center that day. She needed a pick-me-up.

The third reminder is that the rules are different for people who live on the streets. They can’t be fully themselves. The woman who reminded me of this spent a good deal of the morning on the phone with a lawyer; she was getting help to keep custody of her kids. She got teary telling me about her situation–and who wouldn’t–but then she said, “No tears. Tears are a sign of weakness. Gangsters don’t cry.” I looked at her; she was not a gangster. “You can’t show weakness on the street,” she said. And, of course, she is right.

The last reminder for today was that shelter is more than a roof over your head. I live in a home that is safe and with people who will care for me if I am sick or in trouble. That is a gift. But it is also a gift to be with people who have very little. It is a cliche that they remind us of how lucky we are. Sure, sure. Being with people in extreme poverty also reminds me of how completely human it is to fear your own vulnerability even as you protect those around you who are vulnerable. The poor folks I have met remind me not only of what I have that sets me apart, but what we all have that brings us together. Sometimes, the people who make up your community are a kind of shelter, too. They give you a place to feel safe and they care for you when you are sick or in trouble. They won’t take advantage if you shed a tear. Sometimes, they will even give you a little bling for no reason at all.

What would Jesus eat?

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Today, I need food for my body and food for thought. So I think I’ll have a Last Supper Bar:

I think it is already blessed.

And while I eat, I can feed my mind as well:

This will help you get through the day.

I checked and it is Kosher.

This is what happens when a teddy bear comes to life

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Disclaimer: This post is in no way like a Seth Macfarlane movie. At all.

A little over two years ago, my husband brought home a puppy without asking. Seriously, he called me and said, “I am bringing home a puppy.” And then he did. I do not recommend this as a way to spice up your marriage. Basically, you are telling your partner, “either I get to keep this dog or you are the cruelest person alive.”

We have two children who adore puppies. They were going fall in love. I’d have to say no and then everyone would hate me for sending the cutest rescue dog in the world to an unknown fate. I was pretty sure I had an ally in our older dog. Lucy was going on 13 and she was not dreaming of a little brother. I prepared for battle when this came home:

This is Max, fresh out of Lost and Found.

I was doomed. Not only was he adorable, he was friendly. Licked everyone, made friends with the older dog, didn’t mess up the house. The kids were in love. I made my husband swear: we only tell them we are keeping puppy for the weekend.
Once we got inside, Lucy began setting boundaries and growled him into shape. He stopped eating her food, but kept making her fall in love. They played. When was the last time my 100-year-old grande dame actually played?
I thought I had an opening to oust him on Saturday night–he peed on our leather couch!!! But then he kissed and we made up. Sigh. By Sunday the kids had named him Max. He was ours. We groomed him, got him “chipped” and my son picked out a leash, collar, and dog bed.

All cleaned up

He is exactly what a teddy bear would be like if it came to life, all cute and snuggly. Not only does he give constant affection, he hugs you around the neck like a little baby. Every night, Max sleeps on my son’s bed and every morning he wakes on my husband’s head. He is also completely ridiculous. Like trying to scratch himself and walk at the same time. He gets bed head from sleeping on the sofa in front of my while I work and then stares at me all lopsided.
And in case you are wondering why these pictures are taken from above, making him look even smaller than he actually is, it’s because if you get down to his level this happens:

lick, lick, lick

Thoughts on ressurrection

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In the past week, I have dreamed about my dad a couple of times. He died in 2007 and these dreams have been so awesome! Not filled with deep meaning or any sense of “prediction.” Just my dad showing up and doing whatever it is I am doing in my dream. Sometimes being really funny. I had started to worry I might have forgotten what his voice sounded like, or how he walked. But it was all there.

Shortly after Dad died, my mom had an unsettling experience–unsettling and a tiny bit comforting in a spooky way. (Is that possible?) Every night, she slept in her bed with a bunch of pillows lined up beside her due to some back problems. One morning, after she had been awake for awhile and had her breakfast, she walked by the bedroom. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw my dad sleeping in their bed.

She didn’t go in. He wasn’t really there, it was the pillows. She knew this in her rational mind. But for so long the lump in their bed had been him. It was so familiar! By staying out of the room, she had the feeling for a short time that he really was there and alive and she’d be able to see him again. She stayed out of the room long enough to feel that thrill and little bit of joy/fear.

In the years that followed–even to now–I see Dad sitting in church. The back of other men’s heads, the slope of their shoulders, look just like him. I never want these men to turn around and be who they really are. As long as they face the altar, they are my dad sitting in a pew.

I’ve heard many times (and sometimes said myself) that people live on through the lives of those they touched and taught. And I believe that is true. But in grief there is sometimes an effort to resurrect the lost one in our imaginations, reconstruct the physical person we lost using the sights and sounds around us.

My mom’s experience raised questions for her about what the disciples must have gone through after Jesus died. Did they have similar spooky experiences? For me, the little glimpses I get of my dad still choke me up…I am tearing up just writing this. I feel like I am actually in Dad’s presence again.

My dad.

I wonder about the experiences others have of lost loved ones. And, vainly, I am curious about what will make others think of me when I am gone. Will the back of a white-haired woman give my son a start? Will my daughter do a double-take when she hears a laugh that sounds familiar? As far as I can tell, it won’t be any of my unique mannerisms or traits or deeds that will make them think I am present with them again. The things that make you special are remembered in conversations and stories and artifacts. But what makes a loved one feel “there” is what is seen or sensed of them in ordinary encounters or routines, part of everyday life. Unlike the accomplishments and relics you leave behind, the way you are “felt” when you are gone is entirely out of your hands except for one thing– really being there before you go.

Cake in a Jar

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I had a girl’s night out with my buddy Deb. Both of us really needed a night away from the kids and the dads. It was medicinal. And by medicinal, I don’t mean the wine or the awesome apps and dinner. Or even the live music. By medicinal, I mean the dessert:

Frosting
Cake
Frosting
Cake
Frosting
Cake
Frosting

 And a spoon. Absolute heaven.

Cake in a Jar. This isn’t the one I had, it is long gone.

When metaphors are real…it is kind of weird

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Have you ever lived a metaphor? Something happens to you or you do something and then, after some time passes, you look back and think, “if that happened in a book or movie I would not believe it!” A totally trippy experience.

Here is how it happened to me. When my son was 2 years old, he went to a Montessori school that asked parents to give a dozen blown eggs at Easter time. The kids made confetti eggs with them, smashed them on each others heads and had a blast. So I dutifully blew the innards out of a dozen eggs, let them dry, and took them to school. Then I thought, that was not so hard. I bet I could blow some more eggs and decorate them myself. So I did. here is how they turned out:

A little overboard, I know.

I did it again when he was three and four. And the thing is, I am crafty, but not really an artist. I don’t usually paint anything at all, much less decorative objects. But I couldn’t stop myself. Each year I added to the collection and put them all out on display for the holiday.

Y’all, who makes a Tiffany egg? A crazy woman, that’s who.

When my son was 5, I stopped. I was pregnant and he was in Kindergarten–they didn’t do the same Easter craft. I got out the eggs I had already decorated each year, but didn’t added any new ones.

And I never painted another egg again.

A couple of years later, when my son was 7ish and my daughter was a toddler my mom was visiting for Easter and asked if I was going to make any more decorated eggs. “Nah, for some reason I am just not into it any more.” And then she observed, “You stopped making them when you had the baby, maybe you were done thinking about eggs!”

Okay, this is where it gets all metaphorical and weird. The whole time I was painting those fancy eggs I was trying to get pregnant, being treated for infertility, totally focused on EGGS. All day long, all cycle long, thinking about making more and more eggs. And before Easter for three years in a row, I painted eggs with a kind of obsession.

I have no wisdom to add here. Really, I am just trying to figure out what my current habits mean.

Ashes to Dust to Earth

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In October, I watched the ashes of my uncle go into the ground. Right next to the ashes of his mother, my grandmother. In my front garden are the ashes of my mother-in-law and father-in-law. A tall pear tree used to shade them, now it is a place where their grandchildren tumble. On a hillside in North Carolina my father’s ashes are buried next to many other faithful women and men. He has most likely become soil by now, and fed the vines and trees that shade his visitors.

Today, I will have ashes on my forehead to mark the start of a season of penitence. It is a time for self-examination, repentance and renewal of faith–and the spiritual practices that encourage them. But for me it has also become a time to remember not only that I will become ashes and dust and earth some day, but that many I love already have. Ashes remind me of my mortality, and also of the mortals who have inspired me with their faith, their struggles, and their utter need to be connected through love to others. They are my cloud of witnesses.

For the rest of Lent, in addition to repentance and renewal, I’ll be joining the fun and snark of Lent Madness. But the saints from my family, those who have wrestled with God and gone before me, will inspire me to think about my own life and relationship to both the divine and the mundane. And while Easter is still weeks away, the alleluias banished and buried, I will see a little resurrection in the life of their heirs, my children. Much like the weekly suspension of Lent we have on Sundays, it is not only the realization of mortality that inspires repentance, it is also the hope of renewal.

There is a cycle that completes the ashes to dust to earth…and it is new life. In my garden, on a hillside, in my family, and throughout creation.

A lesson in hope and gratitude

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On a pretty regular basis, I help out at a center that serves men and women in our community who are homeless. It is a worship service and meal. Simple and incredibly moving. The reasons people come are diverse. Some are chronically homeless, others recently lost jobs or had a major illness. For women, domestic and sexual violence are a pretty common reason for ending up on the streets. There are people there who volunteer and they have their own diverse reasons for being there. I am no longer surprised, but always brightened that folks at that service pray for me as we work together setting up, singing, and cleaning.

This week there was a different vibe and I am not sure why, probably just the coincidental convergence of the people there that day. That, and all the various struggles they had. In any case, when it came time to ask for prayers, nearly all of them were about mental illness.

“God, I hope my family will talk to me more often and I hope for bi-polar to be gone from the earth.”
“I pray for the man I saw yelling at no one and everyone on the street today.”
“Thank you for a church that is honest. I will not be as sick as my secrets.”

There has been a lot of public discussion lately about mental illness and how we can better “handle it” as a society. Mostly those who have mental illness are seen as the perpetrators of violent and scary behavior, so “handling” them is supposed to make us all feel safer and correct a lot of social ills. But in my experience–in my family, through the center where I volunteer, through friends–I know that people who struggle with mental illness are more often the victims of violence than the perpetrators. So I am pretty sure that what most people mean by “handling” mental illness won’t fix the problems they expect.

Despite their struggles, the men and women I see in this small worshiping community do some pretty healthy things from a spiritual perspective. They seek out the company of friends and helpers, they look for ways to help others, they are grateful for all that they have. One man approached me after the meal to ask if I knew of a shelter for him that night. He had been kicked out of one the previous day, but was suffering from flu and needed to be inside during what was expected to be a very cold night. “I broke one of the rules,” he said, “Mea culpa, it was all my fault.” I wondered how many of my friends would face such immediate and harsh accountability for our behavior? I surely would not.

While not everyone who is homeless is mentally ill, their challenges often hold up a mirror to struggles we all face–a magnifying mirror. Health and illness, inclusion and exclusion, love and indifference. I face all of those, but the impact on my life is usually not as harsh as it is for my neighbors who live on the streets. The judgements and barriers they face every day magnify the violence and injustice woven through our whole society.

And still they pray. And sing. And hope.

The woman who prayed for bi-polar to be gone from the earth later closed our intersessions that day. “Lord,” she asked, “I wish for a car so that I could drive old people to get to the doctor.” I’m going to hold her up as my role model for hope and gratitude this week.

 

Epiphany and the beauty of gray

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The season of Epiphany is upon us, and I have already seen several essays and photos on the theme of light entering a dark world. But the need for light to break through–the astounding difference it can make in a bleak creation–doesn’t really resonate with me. The slightly darker days of a Texas winter are a relief from the brilliant sunshine we get most of the year. I am not trying to make my friends in colder climates upset. Honest! I used to live there, too, and longed for the sun to stay above the horizon more than 8 hours a day.

But now, I could use a bit more dark. In summer, the light here is so bright it is actually harder to see. It saps my energy and strains my eyes. Everything slows down to conserve energy and plants beg for water, or at least shade. During winter, when the light is not as strong and we are blessed with a few cloudy days, things look much different. Much of the wildlife around here (and my dogs!) are more lively in the cooler weather and the parched ground softens with rain. (Also, we get more visitors this time of year, but so far none have been magi.)

I suppose wherever you live, there are ways that the natural world shows us reminders of the holy. Light, dark, cold, warm, stillness, activity. Holly and cactus. The gray light of January and February reveals more to me than the blinding light of summer. It is a perfect time to celebrate the revelation of Jesus to the world.